Tiny, Tiny Moments Series
by Vega's Ring
Summary: "Something about those tiny moments tell you that — this sounds odd, so you might have to winkle out exactly what I'm on about — but it's like those tiny, tiny moments make you feel like there's something else happening somewhere else." Loo Brealey, December 2016. Here's how I imagine them... starting with a game of 20 Questions (set after HLV).
1. 20 Questions

**20 Questions**

* * *

"I'm thinking of a word."

Six hours in isolation, awaiting his sentence, waiting if he could make just one phone call, and this is what he comes up with?

"Sherlock?" The number displayed on her phone is unfamiliar, but the voice is not.

"Yes, Sherlock is a word, but it's not *the* word. I suggest you start with larger categories and narrow it down."

"Oh my God," she huffs. Is that exasperation already?

"Are you okay?" Concern. He can always count on her for that. And then after a beat, "Are you high?" Annoyance. He brings this one out of everyone.

"Ummm, Yesss? And no. Respectively. Really, Molly. Don't waste your questions. You're down to seventeen."

"What the f-… really? At this time of night? I just came back from a double shift – on Christmas Day! And you expect me to… never mind. Those were rhetorical questions, by the way. They shouldn't count."

"Alright then," he concedes, giving his best impression of graciousness. After all, he does want to continue hearing her voice and not think about why that is. "But you're still on seventeen, with four minutes and…5 seconds left."

"Oh. My. God. Why do I let you do this?"

"That's.."

"I know! Again, not a real question. You shouldn't count that."

"Fine."

He hears her thinking, imagines her pacing her kitchen as she tidies up.

"Is it a noun?"

"No."

"Is it even in English?"

"Yes."

"Phew. Glad we sorted that one out." She lets out a nervous giggle. It is disconcertingly melodic and pleasant to hear. He finds that he likes it, even thru the muffled sounds of a phone.

"I'm sure you are," he says, trying to regain control of the situation. "It wouldn't be much fun for me if the word was in Serbian."

"I don't speak Serbian."

"Exactly."

He hears her snort. He can see her rolling her eyes, and he finds himself smiling.

"You're such an arse sometimes."

"I know. Just sometimes." She giggles at that. Dear God, it's a salve to his burning soul. The one that's feeling the lick of the fires of hell. If there was such a thing.

"Continue."

"Ok. Is it a descriptive word? You know, like an adjective or adverb?"

"Yes, Molly. I know what a descriptive word is. But no. It is not."

"Is it… a verb?"

"YES!"

"Great! That really narrows it down, doesn't it?" He loves it when she gets sarcastic. "How many words are there in the English language anyway? Oh lord. Don't answer that."

He hears her tinker with the volume of the telly playing in the background.

"What kind of English is it, anyway? It's not Jamaican or American slang, is it?"

"Molly, yes or no questions only, please. And you're down to 12."

"Right. Right. Then, is it a verb commonly used and understood by all English speakers? Unlike plaster, or to let, or –"

"I get it, Molly. The answer is yes. It is a common verb of the English language. Time is ticking." He sees the clock in front of his cell and his brother waiting for him to end the call, no doubt confused about the conversation he is having with his trusted pathologist.

"Okay fine," she says. "Is it a verb related to your work as a detective? You know, words like murdered or stabbed, or experimenting, or -"

"No. No it is not."

"Ooo-kay. Is it related to sports? Like riding, swimming, boxing, running…?"

"No."

"Hmmmm." He hears her exhale deeply and prays she's not ready to give up and end the call.

"Is it a hobby of some kind?"

"Yes!" He said a bit excitedly. Up until now he really wasn't sure what he was thinking about. But a nice hobby, one that didn't involve murders, was good enough for him. Something he might do in his mind palace to settle his mind as he waits for the British government to mete out his punishment.

"Huh. A hobby. Interesting choice, Sherlock." He smiles, pleased with himself.

"Does it involve special equipment?"

"Umm.. yes! Seven more questions, and about a minute and half left."

"Way to go, Sherlock. You know just how to make a girl's heart race, don't you?"

He doesn't know what to say to that. But he hopes he does. _Why is he thinking this?_

"That was not one of my 20 questions!"

"Fine! I knew that."

"Alright. Do you need to wear anything special for this hobby?"

"Ummm… yes."

"Ohh, is it .. dancing? Ballroom dancing!"

"Huh. That would be good. I do love to dance."

"I know. I sometimes catch you getting down when you think you're alone with my playlist."

"I never…"

"Kidding, Sherlock. I just think, well, you're very graceful and fluid and… I can see you as a contestant in Strictly Come Dancing."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"No! Not at all. I mean, you would crush a Viennese waltz. I can just see it."

"Ah. But that requires a partner. An able partner."

"Well…. I've always wanted to learn how to wal-"

"Nope."

"You don't think I could learn to waltz?"

"No. I mean, the answer is no. It's not dancing. 30 seconds." He was enjoying the imagery, but his five minute call was coming to an end. And anyway, dancing with Molly was just not something he wanted to think about. Not when he was about to go to hell.

"So, it's a hobby requiring special equipment and attire, but it is not a sport."

"Correct."

"SCUBA Diving?"

"No."

"Free climbing? Although that doesn't need special attire…. Mountain climbing? Rock climbing?"

"No and No. Two more. Make it count, Molly."

"What?! Those two are related."

"Mountain climbing is different from rock climbing. Come on."

"Ugh. You're tough. Fencing? Wait! I take that back. That's a sport."

"Sorry. One more left. 15 Seconds."

He hears her suck in a breath of inspiration before she spits out:

"Beekeeping?"

"YES!" Yes. Yes, that would be a really good hobby, he thinks.

A wave of calm washes over him. He can picture Molly finally seated on her couch, with her feet propped up on her coffee table and hair splayed at the back of the sofa. A triumphant smile on her face.

"Beekeeping. Huh," she says. "You know, I could see you retired in the country tending to your hives. Indulging your sweet tooth while studying those fascinating insects. I bet you can study them for hours."

"Yes," he says. He can't help but smile like an idiot in his tiny cell, even as the guards call out the countdown. "Yes, I can."

And then of course he remembers where he is, and where she is and how, despite how near she sounds, how her quiet laugh makes the hair on his nape stand on end, she may forever be unattainable. He had willingly crossed over into the dark side. There may not be any redemption after this, after what he had done. And yet, without her knowing, she had given him a spark of light to take with him in what will invariably be the worst night of his life.

He will be forever grateful for having her as a sort of secret confidant, the unknown entity keeping him sane. But now he won't ever be able to show his deep appreciation for the small and big things she has done for him. He swallows down the sentiment that threatens to overtake him.

"Molly?" He calls out one last time, in hushed tones, as if the name itself brings him salvation.

"Hmmm?"

"Merry Christmas."

And then he had to hang up before she could wish him anything 'merry'.

* * *

 _If you haven't figured it out yet, this story is set right after the events of HLV. Since shipping them together, I thought it would be appropriate that Molly would plant the seed of beekeeping. This is how it could have happened._


	2. She Didn't Know

The party was finally coming to an end. Most of the guests had left, leaving the Baker Street Band (as she liked to call them) around the kitchen table: Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Mary, John, Molly and a phone-less Sherlock. (His phone was still stuck between her breasts and he had spent the majority of the party imagining ways – dangerously delicious ways – to retrieve it.) Finally, they were all relaxed. It had been a heck of a year and they deserved this moment.

"A toast!" said Sherlock, now clearly relishing his role as best man and godfather. Without a phone in hand to keep busy, he may have had one too many toasts today. "A toast for Rosemund Mary Watson, who will have to bear the company of us all."

"Cheers to that," Greg said as he lifted his tumbler of fine scotch. "And I might add, this bunch wouldn't be the same without you git. Imagine what you'd be doing now if it wasn't for Moriarty coming back from the dead!"

"He certainly wouldn't be sloshed," John added while he reclined comfortably with Mary around his arm. "I would almost toast to Moriarty's comeback, but I'll say this instead: We are glad you're here to share this momentous occasion with us."

Everyone raised their glasses and took a swig. Everyone but Molly.

"Hmm. Um, what do you mean by that?" Molly asked, clearly confused.

"Oh, you know," started Mrs. Hudson in her usual nonchalant way. "Sherlock's four-minute exile."

"Four-minute exile?" She hated it when people echoed statements but she found she couldn't stop herself from doing it.

"Remember? When he was given an assignment to Eastern Europe for six months for that stunt he pulled over Christmas?" Greg air quoted "assignment" for effect. "But then Moriarty showed up on the screens and they decided they needed him more in London."

"Really? Huh. I didn't know." Molly looked around the room to see if anyone else was in the dark about this. But they all had the look of horrified understanding, and all eyes were on Sherlock. Meanwhile, his gaze was firmly glued to the floor. It was Christmas at Baker Street all over again.

Molly felt her face flush. Anger and embarrassment battled in her. Anger for not being told anything, and embarrassment for assuming she was very much part of the Band, that she would be "in the know". Well, apparently not. Not when it did not involve fake bodies.

John was the first to react.

"Oh my God. You didn't know?" He then shifted a death glare at Sherlock. "You didn't tell her you were going away?!"

John looked rightly pissed off. Molly was afraid he was going to punch him. She had to step in and save face – hers, and literally his.

"No, no. It's okay John. I mean, it's only fair." She had to deflect the conversation. She didn't want them thinking she was expecting him to tell her anything. "Remember, I was the one who knew the last time." _And how isolating was that?_ She shook her head to ward off those thoughts.

"Anyway, I'm sure there was no need for a dead body this time. Or so I hope!" She tried to force a chuckle but failed to bring levity to the situation.

Thankfully, Rosie chose that moment to stir, sending her quiet whimpers through the baby monitor. Mary made to get up, but Molly quickly put her hand out to stop her.

"No stay, Mary. Let me get her," she said as she practically shoved Mary back down to rush upstairs.

* * *

It was only fair, she kept telling herself as she rocked Rosie back to sleep. Did she expect him to say goodbye? Maybe. To her? Clearly not. Logically, she knew she shouldn't be upset about it. He never really gave any indication that he thought of her as a close friend. As a colleague and help meet? Yes. As someone he would call to annoy when running whatever experiment? Yes. But a friend – someone you bid farewell to? Apparently not.

Her moment with Rosie and self-pity came to an end when she heard his tentative footsteps up the stairs and then the quiet knocking on the door. She quickly and discreetly wiped the wetness in her eyes. Without looking at him by the door, Molly pointed towards the rocker.

"Your phone's over there."

"Thank you." Sherlock took two steps into the room to retrieve it, then paused at the door as he was stepping out.

"I'm sorry." He really did sound contrite, but she didn't make a move to face him.

"It's okay." She said it rather abruptly, briefly forcing herself to make eye contact. She didn't want to dwell on it. Didn't want to talk about it. It's humiliating enough that he had to be admonished by the crowd below to soothe her clearly bruised ego.

"No, it's not." He wasn't letting this one go.

"No, really. It is." She found the courage to face him squarely and look him in the eye with steely determination, only breaking contact to put the sleeping child back in her crib. She gave Rosie a quick kiss and headed for the door.

"Molly," he grabbed her wrist as she walked past him. She looked at his hand and straightened up to meet his gaze, challenging him to defy her. She did not want to talk about it. So, he loosened his grip and let her go.

* * *

She didn't know what he was doing here. For as long as sheknew him, Molly had never known Sherlock to take public transportation. And yet here he was standing awkwardly next to her at the station, fiddling with his phone.

"You would have seen through it," he said, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"What do you mean?"

"I couldn't tell you… because you would have seen through it. The lie."

"Sherlock? Wha-"

"I didn't have it in me to tell a half truth." She saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed on his words. "I'm a murderer, Molly. I shot Magnussen. In cold blood. It wasn't just exile."

He couldn't look at her. He didn't deserve to be in her orbit. Does she not understand that? And yet, here she was, hearing him out, searching his eyes for the truth, for signs of remorse, and slowly understanding the gravity of what could have been.

"Oh God." She covered her mouth to keep herself from screaming. "You were walking to your death?"

They were silent for a long while as she took several calming breaths. Then with hands shaking, she took his hand in both of hers. _Who were you protecting?_ she thought. Did it matter? It must have been his only choice.

"I was going to tell you eventually," he said conversationally as he deftly laced his fingers with hers. "I had a letter all written out." He chanced a glance from his periphery and gave her that crooked sideways grin he knows she likes, trying to diffuse the tension.

"Really?" she said. Then after a beat, turned to him with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Can I read it?"

"Well… no. It's written out in my head." They laughed a bit at that.

He may not be absolved of his crimes. But for now, he was content where he was: waiting at the bus stop and holding hands with the one person who mattered the most.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading Chapter 2!_


	3. Anyone But You

**ANYONE BUT YOU**

 _This chapter is somewhat shorter than usual because I cut the story line. This part isn't rated M yet, but the next chapter is. I'm sorry! I know I rated it K+ originally, but somehow the smut spilled out! It was kinda needed for the storyline and to fit in my head canon. So, I apologize for those who started to read the story but now can't because of the changed rating. I owe you one._

* * *

"You can't be here."

She didn't sound mean. Just resigned and weary. Her cheeks have become sallow, dark circles set deep under her eyes.

Molly plunked down her heavy bag on the couch next to him and tried to made a beeline for her bedroom. Sometimes she wondered why she even bothered to go to John's. She should just keep Rosie at her flat overnight instead of picking her up from the creche, taking her goddaughter to her home for dinner and a bath, and then taking Rosie to John's for bed.

It didn't make sense.

And yet, Molly felt a compulsion to let John be with his daughter, even though he said he's incapable of it. She didn't want to give up on John as a father. He had just lost his wife. He didn't need to lose his child as well.

And so despite bone-deep fatigue, Molly carried on with this commute, forcing John to see his daughter even as he was yet unable to hold her.

Truth be told, Molly needed to be in a constant state of movement. If she stopped, then she would have to acknowledge this new reality: Mary was gone.

"You can't be here, Sherlock," she said again in case he didn't hear. "I'm picking up Rosie and taking her back here for dinner."

"Oh? When did you last eat?" he asked, standing up to block her way to the hall. Just as she was about to answer, he added, "a proper warm meal, Molly."

He pinned her with his eyes, forcing her to make contact. Defiantly, she glared back with her chin jutted out.

"When did you last eat a meal?" she spat out.

"Mrs. Hudson has been extra attentive, actually," he said, his eyes softening to make room for conversation. "Just yesterday, she sat me down and literally watched me chew and shallow while she regaled me with her youthful exploits." He closed his eyes and shivered. "I was forced to finish my meal so she would leave me alone."

He made her chuckle at that, which made him feel somewhat good about himself.

"What do you need then?"

"Nothing." Molly's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"I don't believe you."

"Fine. Then I need you to take care of yourself. Eat – sleep! – for God's sake. Let someone else take care of Rosie tonight. And let me take care of you for once. Please."

He sounded as desperate as she was to do something - anything – to keep sane. But still…

"I… I can't. I have to shower then leave to get Rosie."

"Why?"

"Because if I stop… if I stop then I'll feel. I don't want to feel right now, Sherlock," she said as she moved past him.

XXXXXX

Her skin burned under the searing heat of the shower, but she didn't care. How dare he come here to help him help her. It was so typical of him to be selfish. She didn't need help, thank you very much. She wasn't the one who lost a spouse, who lost a mother. She didn't even really lose a best friend even though she had gotten closer to Mary throughout her difficult pregnancy and after. Molly somehow still felt like an outsider, only called into the circle when needed. Part of it might be because she had never been entirely comfortable in social situations or big groups. But there were also times when she gets reminded of her otherness.

Like, no one told her when Sherlock was shot. She overheard that from someone at the cafeteria. When Sherlock was 'exiled', she had to awkwardly navigate the fall out of not being told and learning about it much later.

It seemed they only really came to her when they needed someone to babysit Sherlock, and then later Rosie. Usually she did not mind. Molly has always wanted to be useful and helpful. And sure, many have taken advantage of that character flaw, but it did make her happy to help the people whom she has come to love like family - and the one she has come to love as definitely not family.

So why was she still feeling like crap? Hasn't she been helpful to John, even doing things that were unbearable to do? Didn't she just plan and execute all the infinite details of Mary's funeral? The one argument she had (and won) from John was to allow Sherlock to be there for the service. But didn't she then have to tell him off despite every single cell in her body wanting him to be close to her for support? Even then, she shunned him.

And now that he's out there in her living room, needing to be needed, why must she remain alone?

She knew why. Because somehow, the sense of fairness tugs at her. If John can't have his wife, she can't have (her) Sherlock.

The irony of it was, she never had him anyway. Never has, and never will.

It was that thought that finally broke her.

* * *

 _Note: Obviously I'm finally writing out my head canon, because I only ever write canonical fanfic. I'm not that creative. Anyway, to me, Sherlock would want to stay occupied, and try to be helpful, even going as far as meeting up with John's former (non-murderous) therapist. I mean, we saw him go to John's only to be told "Anyone but you". But no one has prevented him from helping out the helper. So this is more of useful Sherlock. But as we will see, there are other reasons, aside from being helpful, that are at play. Stay tuned!_


	4. Lifeline

**Lifeline**

 _NOTE: This isn't smutty yet. I lied. It's the next chapter. I was able to isolate the smut to one chapter and separate the prelude. Here's the build-up to that scene..._

* * *

She thought she heard her name being called. But everything sounded muffled, like she was submerged. Next thing she knew, a door was being kicked open and she was being pulled out of the tub, a towel quickly draped on her.

Molly was shaking uncontrollably. She couldn't tell if she was cold or sobbing. Maybe both. Can grief turn into shock? She really wanted to know but her mind was being lulled by a warm, rocking embrace.

 _This must be what its like to be Rosie,_ she thought. _Miraculous that it worked on high functioning adults, too._

It took a few moments to register that she was being guided out of the tub and into her bedroom by Sherlock, whose godparenting skills have improved a lot, by the way, since the baptism. He gently got her to sit on the edge of the bed as her shaking subsided and her eyes mildly dry. When he handed her a night shirt, Molly noticed the dark water stains on his electric blue shirt where she must have balled her eyes out.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I ruined your shirt," she said.

He looked down at his chest where he cradled her wet face, then glanced up to smile at her.

"Don't worry about it. I know you'll get me back for it." He winked to let her know that that was his attempt at a joke. "Just rest for now. Please."

"But Rosie – "

"You've already sent a text message to Mrs. Hudson. She is taking Rosie home and getting them all sorted out."

"But John – "

"He can take care of Rosie for a night. You, on the other hand, need to take care of yourself. Take a nap. I'll be here when you wake up."

 **XXX**

Sherlock was true to his word. He stayed and got busy while she slept. He ordered dinner and even managed to run to the neighborhood grocer to stock up her fridge with fruit, milk, eggs and bread.

It was almost nine o'clock when she was awoken by the door ringing and the subsequent smell of thai curry filling the room. Her rumbling belly forced her to get out of bed.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was busy getting plates out and setting it on the breakfast bar. She felt the now familiar tug at her chest when he is being utterly irresistible. _Dang,_ she thought. _Domestic Sherlock gets me every time._ She knew she would never get over him. But at least he was here as her friend, right? That's more than she thought could ever be possible since their first meeting over 7 years ago.

Just as if he read her mind, Sherlock broke their comfortable silence with a question.

"Do you remember one of the autopsies you showed me when we first met?" he asked in between bites.

"How could I forget. Male, 28 years old. Homeless. But you knew his name and where he slept."

She could never forget that first encounter, actually. She was stunned by his sheer beauty at first: steely blue eyes; broad chest without being too buff; dark luscious hair. But then he opened his mouth and she was put off by his bluntness towards Lestrade. She was about to cross him off as another arrogant face when he surprised her with his humanity.

It should have been a standard autopsy. Cause of death was evidently an OD. But Molly found something suspicious about this homeless man's death, which was very similar to another homeless death she encountered a few months back. So, she asked Greg if he could take a look at the circumstances around this person's death. Sherlock just happened to be there when she told Greg that she thought he had been murdered, that she had seen a similar autopsy of an unidentified homeless man, and that perhaps, there was a connection. After all, they bore the same inconsistent needle marks for supposed heavy drug users, as the tox results seemed to show, she explained. When she revealed the body, Sherlock was able to identify the body and concur with her findings. Guy Richards was apparently afraid of needles and only ever smoked what he took in.

"I never did get to solve that one," he said sadly.

"Don't be hard on yourself. You can't solve them all. And in any case, it was tough to pin it to a serial killer with only two seemingly related deaths, one of the bodies unclaimed. Not to mention the met just got dealt with a series of high priority terrorist threat events. They needed you on those."

"Hmmm," he said wrinkling his nose, unconvinced. "It never sat well with me that there could be a murderer of the homeless on the loose." He looked absolutely dejected. "I've let you down. You did such thorough work. And I never followed up on it."

She had fallen in love with Sherlock back then, at that moment, when first, he took notice of the vagrants in the city, taking the time to know them by name even if he was using them as informants. Most people would just ignore them and pass them off as useless members of society. But Sherlock, he gave them a chance. That was noble of him.

The second moment was when he looked into her eyes and showed a sincere determination to get to the bottom of it. That was a long time ago. He hadn't delivered on that promise. But here she was, still in love with him.

She reached out to take his hand and gave it a friendly squeeze.

"Don't," she said gently but forced him to look at her. "Don't kick yourself while you're down. You've done many good things for people. You've saved many lives."

"But I-"

"You have saved lives," she said determinedly. "It's not your fault when some people decide to walk away from it."

She knew she had to choose her words correctly to remain truthful but not patronizing. Mary had at least once tried to walk away from her life to keep her family safe. Molly was there to pick up the pieces for Rosie when John and Sherlock spent a fortnight trying to track her down around the world. So, it was not a stretch of imagination to think that Mary knew that her days were numbered and that taking a bullet would be another way out.

It was moments like this that made her resent her friend for walking away from Rosie and John. For dying for Sherlock.

"It's such an unfair exchange," he said despondently, hoping she wouldn't hear. But she did. And it made her blood boil.

"Take it back," Molly said vigorously, disentangling their joined hands.

Sherlock was taken aback by her sudden change in demeanor.

"Don't say that," she spat out. "Don't ever say that. Do you hear me?"

Molly jumped off her seat and planted herself between his knees. She held his confused gaze and despite the loud thudding of her heart, she stepped even closer to cradle his face in her palms. She could feel the rough stubble on his cheeks.

"Do you hear me?" she said as she sucked in steadying breaths. "I need you."

He nodded his ascent, feeling wildly powerless under her fierce gaze but strangely turned on at what should be a somber moment.

"I need you," she whispered again, her breath sending wisps of air on his wet lips. It took all of his mental strength to keep him from leaning in and capturing her bottom lip. But he needed to be sure what she wanted from him. He wanted her to take the lead.

And thank goodness she did.

 **XXX**


	5. Molly the Taker

**Molly the Taker**

 _Alright kiddies, here comes the smut with a side of angst!_

* * *

Molly took his lips and rather forcefully slid her tongue in to deepen the kiss. Sherlock was only too happy to oblige. Soon, he felt her lips on his neck, her hands on his chest, not quite unbuttoning his shirt. He didn't know how far she wanted to go with this but as far as he was concerned, he could go all the way. He needed this contact. Needed to feel needed. Needed to feel wanted.

And by golly, Molly was giving it to him in spades.

He thought she was about to finally unbutton his shirt (she had untucked it, after all) when she placed her hands on his shoulders and stopped.

"Is this okay? Can I have this?" Her eyes searched him for clues.

Sherlock was confused. Did he not look okay? And, have what? They were both out of breath, heartbeats ragging, and he was barely thinking as all his blood had rushed south. Two loaded questions were too much to currently process.

"Can I have this? Just for tonight?" She asked again.

 _Is she asking permission to fuck me?_ he thought. Was she under the impression that he wasn't a fully willing participant? Well then, to answer, Sherlock pulled her close to press his hardness on her. Nipping her neck and running his tongue up towards the base of her ear, he replied, "Can you make a deduction?"

With doubts cleared, Molly took Sherlock's hand and moved them to her couch.

She straddled him, grinding her mons deliciously on his cock. This was likely her one chance with him so she made sure to make it count. She kissed his lips hungrily, savoring the feel of his tongue sparring with hers. Then she made a trail of kisses down to his chest, divesting him of his shirt and reverently pressing her lips on the scar over his heart. Her fingers played with his taut abdominal muscles and slowly scooted off him as her fingers worked his belt and freed him of his trousers.

Sherlock had to take deep breaths and recall every murder scene he solved by distance from the Tower to keep himself from coming so quickly. It was not easy. Her lips were impossibly wet, her mouth unmatched in its dexterity as she flicked the top of his cock with her tongue and consumed him again down to her throat. He was desperate to be inside her, buried in her in the most intimate of ways, to be one with someone other than his shitty self.

"Molly, please. Stop!" He grabbed a fist full of her luscious locks and moved her up and away from his throbbing member. Before she could misunderstand and bolt in embarrassment, he stood up to join her and made a move to lift the night shirt off, but she stilled his impatient hand.

"I – I don't want to disappoint," she said suddenly self-conscious.

Sherlock paused to take in the wildness of her hair, her swollen lips, her heaving chest, then understood. He chastised himself for all those cruel comments he had made about her physical features. How could he have said all that? In another life, Sherlock would have silently vowed to make up for all his past transgressions. But he was not going to, not after spectacularly failing to keep the promises he had already made. Instead, he took her hand and walked her to her room where he laid her gently on the bed and kissed her mouth, her neck. He traced his hands over her covered body, pausing to cup her breasts, and made his way down caressing her thighs, her calves, and pausing to kiss the balls of her feet. He took her left leg and set it over his right shoulder, opening her up to him. The smell of their arousal was heavy in the room. He wanted her. He wanted her so badly that he wanted to impale her right then and there and ride her till he came.

But not yet.

Slowly, he bent over, kissing her left calf and thigh as he neared his intended target. And then finally, he dipped his fingers, then his tongue, to tease her moist center. She was the most sublime instrument he had ever played, making passionate sounds from her throat, urging him to speed up or slow down.

"Oh, fuck me," she said, cursing and commanding all at once as she rolled her head and rode out her orgasm in the palm of his hand.

Not quite satisfied with his performance, Sherlock hitched up her nightshirt slowly, eyes seeking permission, while he trailed the pads of his hands on her inner thighs, her stomach, her breasts, neck and arms, and savoring how it made him tingle with anticipation. At last, she was fully revealed to him, naked as the day she was born. He revered this woman, held her with the highest regard. He admired her practical intelligence, her quiet strength, her fierce loyalty, and unshakable faith in humanity. She was everything he was not. And he wanted to let her know without question she was the one that mattered the most.

"You," he said breathlessly under this escaped random thought. He hovered over her, ready to enter.

"What?" She was so incoherent herself, her brain foggy with desire. They shouldn't be having a conversation.

"I need you," he managed to get out.

Molly understood exactly because she needed it too. Unbearably so. She tackled him over on to his back and lunged rather gracelessly towards her bedside drawer, grabbed the last pack, hoped it wasn't expired, and rolled it on his shaft.

"Not the pill?" he asked rather stupidly. She shook her head.

"No action lately" she said as she pinned him on his back.

 _Well, that needs to change,_ he thought and hoped he didn't say that out loud. He was about to open his mouth again for a comeback (in case he did say it out loud) when Molly captured his mouth, pulled back, then seated herself on him.

She was a sight to behold. She was grinding into him, touching herself down there, pinching her nipples, gasping for air, arched and exposed for all of him to see. He laid there stunned and needlessly more aroused as she sought out her climax. She had transformed from a shy morgue mouse to this wild and uncompromising succubus. She was determined to take everything he could give, and then some, like he had no say in the matter.

Because of course, he didn't. Tonight, it was about Molly Hooper. And he wanted to make sure every inch of her remembered that.


	6. Don't Die

He came to wakefulness at about 5:30 a.m. feeling unusually rested. He had his right arm wrapped around Molly's shoulder, her head nestled just below his collarbone. He never thought much about physical contact and had often derided people's need for it. But now he could be persuaded that there was some merit to it. And it didn't have anything to do with last night's activities, although that was some spectacular show of endurance and willpower on his part if you asked him.

The weight of her sleeping form, her steady breathing against his chest, and the length of her frame pressed against his side gave him a strange sense of stillness. He never thought he'd ever want to linger after sex, but he found himself unwilling to move. Maybe it was the time of day? Or maybe because it was just Molly? She was a safe zone, after all.

(His last sexual encounter long, long ago in a posh hotel room in Islamabad was a dare that had to be accepted. He instantly regretted it though and fled before any more propositions or nefarious deals were exchanged.)

Whatever this was, it brought him clarity. He stayed there unmoved, in bed with Molly Hooper and her hair, breathing her in and found the courage to do what he knew he needed to do from a place of lo-… light, instead of his overwhelming sense of self-loathing. He knew he had to go to hell. Mary just gave him very specific instructions on how to do it, even though he didn't need it. To "go to hell", Sherlock just needed to follow his basest of instincts. Before last night, he was ready to make that fatal leap to go all out, so to speak.

Things shifted somehow in the early light of day. He couldn't jump into hell now, at least not without knowing there was that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. This job wasn't about him after all. He needed to save John Watson first and foremost, not kill Sherlock Holmes.

With this epiphany, he carefully extricated himself off her to shower and get to work on his game plan.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was almost seven in the morning when Molly woke up to find herself alone in bed. Not that she was expecting them to be waking up spooned together like little baby cats. That could have been awkward, actually. She knew Sherlock well enough, and he wasn't a touchy-feely guy. Last night was quite surprising and nothing short of miraculous. But then again, even the great Sherlock Holmes was prone to clichés. He did hook up with the bridesmaid after a wedding. Why wouldn't he hook up with the co-godparent after a funeral?

Molly lumbered her way towards the kitchen on wobbly legs and almost tripped when she found the consulting detective at the breakfast bar with his laptop open and a coffee mug in his hand.

"Good morning," she croaked, half pleased he was still there and half mortified her bed head was in full display while he was already, as usual, impeccably dressed.

"Uhm," he grunted in response, acknowledging her with just a quick glance up from the top of his mug and the computer screen. He then put the mug down and walked towards the oven where he retrieved a plate of toast and scrambled eggs. He set the plate down in front of her then poured her a cup of coffee, mixing in milk and two sugars just as she liked it. _This is how I should start my day every day,_ she thought as her eyes did a quick scan of the Adonis before her. She had to pinch herself to make sure this was not a dream.

"Ow! I mean, Wow," she skillfully corrected, as he handed her some silverware. "I must've done something right. That, or I died and went to heaven," she joked as she took a bite of her toast. "Service in this house has never been better."

Sherlock did not answer that. He was just staring intently at the computer screen, trying to formulate how he was going to ask her a favor.

"A new case then?" He finally faced her with his head tilted in confusion.

"You must be working on a new case," she continued, as one does when met with awkward silence. "You haven't eaten and you're drinking coffee. You don't eat, and you only drink coffee when you're working a case." His eyebrows raised, as if impressed.

"I, too, can make observations, Sherlock. You're not as mysterious as you make yourself out to be. So, what is it?"

Having found his opening, Sherlock said, "It is a case. A 10. Probably my most important and dangerous to date." He sucked in a breath loudly before he added, "I need a favor from you."

A slow smile formed on her lips as she swallowed her coffee and set the mug down. "Ah, and there it is," she said. Sherlock looked absolutely perplexed. Clearly, Molly had to explain herself because his brain wasn't functioning on all cylinders this morning.

"Well, you know. Dinner, breakfast….sex," she said that last bit flippantly, as if it didn't matter to her. "It all makes sense now." He looked horrified. "It's okay Sherlock. Don't look so shocked. I'm on to you," she said, winking to let him know she was joking, that she doesn't take it personally. "You always butter me up when you want something from me. No use denying it now. I know it's a big ask."

He didn't know why he felt insulted by this when it would be far more convenient if it were the truth. He was about to object to her assertions when he realized that his intentions last night, and all those times he had 'buttered her up' had been sincere. He had not been bringing coffee to the morgue solely to gain access to body parts. And he hadn't been buying her dinner because he kept her late at the lab. He just made it always seem that way. Up until this moment, he had convinced himself that he needed to keep Molly Hooper happy to continue his unfettered access to the lab and body parts.

The inconvenient truth was that he had a better laboratory to use at the Met's and no real need for body parts to play with. Why he continued to go to her was something he didn't want to think about. Right now, he had a goal – to save John Watson – and whatever he was feeling had no bearing on anything. He had to focus.

And so, he acknowledged her deduction at face value.

"You're right. It is quite a big favor." He looked almost sorry he needed to ask it.

"What is it then? What do you need?" Over four years ago, she asked that very same question. She had been so very afraid for him then. This time was no different.

"I need you to trust me."

Molly nodded and braced herself for what was coming. But that was all he said.

"Okay Sherlock. I trust you. What do you need?" She asked again. Molly searched his eyes for clues for what he wanted. But Sherlock's face wasn't giving any hints.

"I just need you to promise me that you will trust me, no matter what. Even when every bone in your body, and all other evidence is telling you otherwise." His intense gaze pleaded her to understand. But she wasn't getting it.

"I do trust you, Sherlock. You don't need to ask that of me."

"But I do. For this case, I do. I will have to do things you wouldn't want me to do. But…" he let out a huff to prevent himself from crying out and letting her save him from himself.

"Just trust that I know what I'm doing," he swallowed hard to control the fear that was bubbling up from his belly, "and see me through this."

Molly was moved by the sincerity of his request. It was a simple ask as far as she was concerned. Of course, she trusts him. Of course, she will see him through. She will always be there for him. Always.

Unless…

And that's when the gravity of the favor hit her with full force. She finally understood what he was saying. This was no ordinary case, whatever it was. He was going to visit his demons as she watched from the front row.

"No," she said, taking a step back. "No, I can't do that," she said more forcefully, shutting her eyes and walking away. Her head felt heavy and that Meat Loaf song blasted in her ears. _I will do anything for love, but I won't do that,_ it said over and over. She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of her life being reduced to a 1990's epic rock song but the loud pounding of the imaginary piano was too disorienting.

Sherlock sprinted around the bar and grabbed her shoulders. He spun her around and hugged her tightly, rocking her like he did the night before.

"Please Molly. Please," he begged. "I have to do this. I have to do this, even without you. But I'd much rather not. I've lost so many friends already. I can't lose you, too."

How could she say no to him when he was like this? She understood his desperation perhaps more than he did. She was hopelessly in love with him, the Sherlock Holmes who thoughtlessly threw himself at death's door, after all. She knows what it's like to fear losing someone you care for.

So how can she deny him? She will always be there for him anyway. Always. But will he be there for her? Shouldn't she demand something in return? Why not. It was only fair.

"Ok," she said finally, coming to terms with her decision. "I promise to trust you and be there for you all the way. Anytime. But you have to promise me one thing. Just one easy thing."

Pulling out of their embrace, Sherlock held her face and wiped the tears from her eyes.

"What is it?"

"Don't die."

* * *

 _Author's Note. It bothered me so much that Sherlock was so rude to Molly during The Lying Detective, and that Molly just took it. She clearly wasn't happy with him. But I wanted her to scream and slap some sense into him for what he was doing to himself. And then she turns around and easily forgives him and takes the night shift. So I thought, well, maybe she had an idea that something was up and that he made her promise to trust him? And for Sherlock, for someone as self-destructive as he is, when he said "I don't want to die," it felt blasé at first, until he truly realized he did not want to die. Maybe he realized what his promise to not die really meant?_


	7. Promises Kept

**Promises Kept**

"Do you trust me?"

"You have a knife at my throat, and I'm lying prone in a weakened state. It's rather late for that question, don't you think?"

 _But of course, I trust you. I trust you with my life, as with my death. You have proven your unshakable loyalty through all the times I have disparaged and used you, much to my deep regret, through fake and broken engagements, and all those times I thought I didn't need anyone to protect me and keep me safe. You believed in me. Why wouldn't I trust you?_

 _Unless… you have finally reached your breaking point. Maybe it was last night, when I kept you up as I emptied my stomach of last night's cake on the floor next to my bed, and you had to clean me up, and clean up after me as you usually do. Maybe it was just before dawn, when you swaddled me in a blanket and held my shaking form so close and sang me a lullaby to get me to finally sleep, even for just an hour or two. Maybe you've decided that you're finally done dealing with a high-functioning sociopath junkie, so underserving of the love of his friends._

But all of these doubts melt away as she rolls her eyes at their poor attempt at humor. Her strokes are gentle but firm, cutting close to the skin without breaking it.

"You've done this before," he says. It isn't a question, but he is curious if she has ever done this for a lover. That isn't a particularly pleasant thought. In fact, if he was not Sherlock Holmes, heartless bastard, he would have said it was jealousy.

"When my father was in palliative care, I shaved him every day. He was quite hirsute," she replies with a little mischievous giggle. Only Molly Hooper would find something to laugh at in the darkest of places.

"And your mother?" he asks simply.

 _Not as hairy,_ she wants to say, but Molly holds her tongue. Bad joke.

"She didn't make it past my third birthday. Ovarian cancer," she shrugs. "It's what's gonna get me too, I bet."

He's known her for almost a decade and he just found this out? _Shame on me,_ he berates himself. Obviously, she grew up motherless. It shows in her fashion choice.

"I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for. It is what it is," she says without a hint of sadness.

There it is again. _It is what it is._ And what it is is shit.

"I mean, I'm sorry that I never knew this about you," he says softly. "You probably told me but I've deleted it."

She just shrugs in answer, as if she expects if from him. Has he always been obtuse with her? Dismissive? Why does she put up with it? Why is she still here?

"Why are you still here?" He blurts it out before he could censor himself.

She looks at him with raised eyebrows. "You know why." She pauses to make him squirm a bit. "Someone refused rehab like a normal person." Then she softens her glare to let him know she's really not that mad.

"That's not what I mean," he replies sadly, regretting his outburst, his inappropriate question.

She understands finally, and takes a breath to ready her reply.

xxxxx

It is a loaded question. Why is she here? Why is she still hanging around him like an eager puppy, waiting for morsels of kindness and affection?

"Because…"

 _Because I love you. Because I'm stupid, crazy in love with you, you blind git. But I'll never tell you. You're the great consulting detective. You should see it plainly. It's pathetic enough that everyone feels sorry for me for loving you as long and as hard as I have. As unrequitedly as I have – if that's even a word. By saying it, it puts a burden on you. As if you'll now feel obliged to say it back… or feel sorry for me when you don't. God. I'd never want you to feel sorry for me. You care enough about me, I think. Enough to make a deal with me. We made a deal, remember? And you kept your end of the bargain._

And there it was.

"Because," she continues, stroking his cheek intimately, feeling the softness of his freshly shaved face on the tips of her fingers, "you kept your promise. So, I kept mine."

He searches her face and reads the truth – and more. He could have taken her, there and then, leaned up to capture her lips and pound into her like they did after Mary's funeral.

But Sherlock Holmes is a coward. It was for a moment like this that made him fight for his life. It was for more time with Molly Hooper that made him want to carry on. Don't die, she asked. And he delivered, because Molly Hooper rarely asks for something. If she wants to take him now, he will readily comply.

But her hands leave his face, and John Watson is at the door.

Maybe tonight he'll tell her he owes her his life. Maybe tonight he'll be braver.


End file.
